Without Words
by avorialair
Summary: There’s a difference in the Doctor which he tries to explain to Rose. Perhaps by the end of it, she will realise exactly why it is that he never voices his feelings. [Complete]


**Title**: Without Words

**Author**: Angels

**Summary**: There's a difference in the Doctor which he tries to explain to Rose. Perhaps by the end of it, she will realise exactly why it is that he never voices his feelings.

**Characters**: Tenth Doctor, Rose Tyler

**Disclaimer**: I own this laptop, and some rather poor quality videos of a couple of episodes from Season Two. So much for VHS, eh? I have, unfortunately, lost my David Tennant & Billie Piper poster.

**Spoilers**: "Rise of the Cybermen" and "Age of Steel". Possibly spoilers for "Doomsday", but only if you've already seen it and, even then, only if you squint.

**Author's Note**: Wrote this a while ago and found it trawling through my archives on my computer. Thought I may as well put it up. Written in response to a challenge on LJ's if-we-let-go community.

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**Without Words**

>

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"Doctor?"

"Hmm?"

"Did... Did your people ever get married?"

The tea that he has been sipping at for the past five minutes or so, suddenly makes its way all over the counter as the Doctor chokes and splutters. It burns him slightly and tears sting at his eyes. Up until now, he has been sitting quite contentedly on a stool in the kitchen whilst Rose eats her breakfast. It is a habit he has taken up of late, keeping her company in her waking couple of hours.

He has been reading a book, relaxed back into the chair, his ankles crossed, his spectacles perched across his nose. His hair is suitably ruffled, because it is a habit of Rose's – on these mornings – to wander over to him with a tired smile, run a hand affectionately through it and greet him with her first words of the day.

'Day', he uses loosely – the TARDIS does not have days. The TARDIS is betters than 'days'.

Regaining some composure, the Doctor puts his book page-down onto the surface and pushes his glasses up his nose with a finger, looking at her interestedly. She has just finished her cereal and is sitting across the breakfast bar, watching him with inquiring nature. He relaxes a little when he sees her look: she is simply asking a question to further her knowledge of him. Just as well, he supposes.

"Rose, marriage is a very human thing," he tries to explain delicately, fearful of offending her ancestry background. "Go a hundred years back into your past, it was so much more of a tie than it is for what you're used to. Go forward a few thousand years, the ritual has pretty well been wiped out. No one of your race can assign themselves to just one other – it isn't in your nature."

She gives him a strange look, and he thinks she looks amused. He shifts in his seat slightly, clearing his throat and reaching to take his glasses and tuck them into his pocket.

"That wasn't what I asked," she points out after a moment, eyes on him.

No, of course it wasn't.

He lets out a sigh and glances to his book, realising with slight horror that his tea has soaked into some of the pages.

"No, Rose. My people never got married. Never had a word for it, as far as I know. Never came up."

She looks a little crestfallen, possibly, and he has to make a physical effort not to comfort her, reaching for his mug of tea rather than her hand, blowing steam away from the surface rather than hair from her face, taking a tentative sip at the rim rather than letting his lips graze hers in comfort he cannot put into words.

"Oh."

Her eyes dip to look down to the soggy remnants of cereal left in the bottom of the bowl.

The Doctor swallows thoughtfully, placing his mug back on the surface and looking at Rose through a raised eyebrow.

"Why do you ask?" he wonders aloud, though he is not sure it if the most sensible question.

She looks up to him again, eyes wide – though that may just be her drowsy waking.

"I was just... thinking..."

"...About..." he prompts, titling his head to one side and giving the smallest of smiles. It's so slight, it only plays along the corners, quirking them up almost into a smirk. He should probably let it go, he thinks, should probably let her get on with whatever it is that's bothering her and instead go and find somewhere for their next destination. But she has asked, now, and it has gained his interest. She doesn't know that much about him, he reflects. He can probably let her in on one or two things: if she asks.

"Before I met you," Rose explains, fiddling with her hands and glancing anywhere but him, "I sort of... assumed that I'd always get married. Y'know, me and Mickey living in a house on some some nice road, him with his good job, me back home with the kids, sending them off to school. I sort of figured that'd be it. Didn't really _think_ about it, but just sort of... pictured it... every now and then."

She seems sad, and he really _does_ have to stop himself from reaching for her hand this time, instead reaching up and running his fingers through his long hair. It sticks up at ridiculous angles now, like it has a life of its own and wishes to break free from his head.

"And now?" he asks quietly, and there is almost dread in his voice.

When she looks at him, when she meets his eye, that's when he sees it – her past, her future, all rolled into one and surging through her deep eyes, two round marshes of overwhelming emotion at the simplest of things. Oh, Rose.

"Now it's just sort of..." She shrugs half-heartedly and looks away again, sliding off the stool to stand. "I can't have what I had with Mickey."

He refrains from pointing out that it's because dear old idiot Mickey has stayed behind in the alternate universe and that she'll never see him again. Which is just as well, because she brings it up anyway. Sort of.

"I mean, I know he's not here anymore. But even before that. When you asked me to come with you... it all changed."

He can't help the frown, can't help lowering his hand to his side, can't help watching her with worried curiosity like she is the only – and he means only, for he excludes the stars and planets and calls and time and space that he senses on a general basis – thing that he wants to be looking at right now.

"All of it?" he asks, his voice verging on broken in his sombre state. He does not want to ask, does not want to hear the answer, knows that it will lead him somewhere that he cannot go; but he has to know.

"Yeah," Rose shrugs again, looking at him and hovering on the edge of the breakfast bar. He is pleased it stands between them, because otherwise, she looks as though she may tumble over, and he knows that he would catch her. "I don't see anything anymore. I don't see a house, or kids, or weddings, or cars, or mortgages, or... or any of it. It's just – " She motions vaguely with a hand, flexing her fingers out in front of her and waves her arm slightly " – empty."

The Doctor stares in shock. "Empty..." he repeats, sucking on his teeth with genuine contemplation.

"I don't mean there's nothing," Rose amends quickly, the gesturing hand becoming slightly flustered. "I mean there's just this. All the time. You and me, doing what we do best."

He meets her eye and wants to tell her that it can't be forever, that nothing is forever, that one or other of them will die, that she will leave, that they will separate, that the universe will have its say and nothing can be done about it. He will never leave her behind, he promises to himself, to Rose, to the universe. He knows she will never leave him.

But the universe may have other plans. It always does, after all.

He wants to tell her, despite what it isn't want to hear – but in her eyes, he can see that she knows. So why shatter the illusion she is creating for herself? It's pretty enough to look at, from a distance. She is seeing them as they are, now, without wanting anything from him. She said so herself. No family. No children. No house. No... no marriage. He shudders inwardly, he really does. Marriage would just – no. No. Just – no. Perhaps it is because he has been brought up a different way. Perhaps because it is such a silly little human tradition. He hates it, though. Because it means nothing. Humans have managed to take the joining of two souls, of promises, something more incredible in the entire universe, and turn it into a tacky ceremony, a slip of paper and something that is as easy to break as a twig.

The Doctor hates them a little bit for it, he thinks. No, marriage is not right.

And – he brings the heels of his hands to his eyes, rubbing away the thoughts – he can't be thinking this now. He really, really can't. Not with Rose standing right there, all innocence and smiles and questions.

She has been talking, he realises. He can't for the life of him remember a word she's said, but he looks now, eyes slightly red, suddenly a lot more fatigued than he can remember being in a long while.

She blinks back at him and closes her mouth: he wonders if he caught her mid-sentence.

They watch each other for a moment or two, the Doctor concentrating on breathing and not spilling out the irritations of his mind. She wouldn't thank him for it, he knows.

Rose takes in a breath before she speaks, playing with the hem of her t-shirt.

"Doctor, you and me... We're not like that. I don't know what we are, but it's not – "

"Don't," he interrupts with real warning, his eyes suddenly glaring and his voice stern. He can see the confusion unfold upon her face like a flower in the middle of winter, just as out of place. She looks up and meets his gaze with innocence.

"But Doctor, we're – "

"Rose, I'm telling you, _don't_."

She blinks at him a moment and he holds her gaze: he can give her that, at least.

"Why not?" she asks quietly and he can hear in her voice that he has hurt her. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, but keeps the eye contact, his eyes brewing up a storm.

He licks his bottom lip slightly nervously before he explains, and with some distaste, he realises that his hand is shaking. He has never come this close to the edge before.

"I can't," he tries, wondering if it will satisfy her. There is pleading in his voice, and pity, and a hint of regret. The hurt in her fades slightly and she cocks her head, giving him the sort of curious look a squirrel might give a blackbird upon first meeting.

There is a question burning in her eyes and he can see it, dancing like two lovers dance a samba, entwining and circling like licks of flame upon bark. If she voices it, he knows he will not be able to brush this off. He stares at her intensely, staring into her eyes as he watches the lovers dance, not sure whether he wants to tear it out of her in a scream or run away and hide.

The rising tension between them mounts, and suddenly it is too much for Rose.

"Can't what?"

Deep down, he always knew she would ask.

The Doctor takes in a long, slow breath, only to let it out again in a sigh.

"I don't talk about it," he explains, fighting with himself to keep his voice off terse. She doesn't know and it needs explaining, one way or another. This incarnation – most, in fact – tends to have a way with words. It is surprising, then, that he is caught in this mid-point between who he is and who he tries to be. "None of us do. Time Lords... there are so many ways to explain things, Rose, that don't involve words. Humans have it easy: you get the basic five senses, and that's it. With me – you have no idea. Talking about... us... in whatever terms you put it in, I just can't do it. Words don't work, Rose, and trying just makes it worse. It's impossible to _talk_ about anything you really want to express. Talking means nothings. Empty promises. All that matters is what you do, who you're with and how you act, in those seconds. That's _it_, Rose, I mean it. Base whatever you want to think, whatever you want to make of it, on memories and feelings. Nothing else."

He is shaking and can't look at her, is surprised at how much effort this is taking him not to to get up and run for the nearest cupboard he can lock himself away in. He can't talk about this. Can't talk about emotions, can't put into words what goes on his head. Because if he tries, or if somebody else tries for him, he just might implode. His head is spinning as it is, thoughts writing in incompetence. He just hopes for the life of him that Rose can understand, because he does not think he has the strength to explain further. Not with words, anyway. Never with words.

A silence begins to dawn between them like a mist on a cool winter air. He still can't look at her, still concentrated on his shoes as they dangle just off the floor.

"If you... If you can't talk about it, Doctor, how does anyone _know_?"

It is an interesting question, he thinks, and thankfully one that won't practically kill him to answer.

"Body language," he offers with a shrug, looking up to find her watching him. "The look you get in your eyes. The way you move, the way you stand. Your nervous habits that spring up whenever you're around. The way your body reacts – heart racing, breath caught, sweat as heat begins to flood through you. And that's just physical, Rose."

He holds her gaze for a lingering second and wonders, idly, if she knows he has been listing all the changes he notices and loves in her when tension between them rises, a it is so often inclined to do these days.

She swallows, and somehow, watching her, he knows her mouth is dry – perhaps because his is, too.

"There's more than physical?" she asks quietly, her voice ever so slightly higher in pitch. He is almost proud of her for simply asking to find out, to quench her wondering thirst – she simply wishes to know.

"Oh, yes," he confirms with a tone so low it sends a shiver down her spine. He speaks onwards, his gaze intensifying with every word as he lists the things he notices in her. She has no idea. "There are actions, like I said. Actions speak a lot for it. There's scent on the air as the chemicals inside you shift and change. There's the way you look, the way you sound, the way you _feel _in a room. The way atmosphere moulds itself around you, shaping you into the fabric of space. It all changes, Rose, and I can sense it all." He has maintained steady eye contact through all of this, all the while wondering if she knows – now – why words are so redundant. That he cannot, under any circumstances, begin to simply 'talk' situations. It just can't be done. It is a way of life that he has been taught to avoid. He is not quite sure how long they look at each other, but eventually, he brings a finger up to tap lightly at his temple. "Then there's this, of course."

Her eyes widen and she swallows again. He can see her saliva, practically feel it, slide down her throat in her nervousness.

"Slightly psychic," she whispers, and he smiles because she has remembered.

"Something like."

She seems caught in his explanation, her mind and thoughts reeling. Perhaps this is enough of a lesson today.

Feeling stronger again, the Doctor slides out of his seat to stand, walking slowly towards her so that he towers over her. The light is behind him so he throws a shadow over face. Her wide eyes look up to him, mouth closed but so much innocence there, he almost wants to kiss it out of her. He doesn't, though, for sometimes even actions can say and mean too much. Or, in this case, not enough.

He reaches to take her chin between his thumb and the crook of his finger, almost smiles when he can feel her lean into him. Their eyes lock and he is suddenly much more aware of the vortex swirling around his TARDIS than he has been before.

"You see?" he asks in a growl, not quite sure why his voice has rolled into a pitch that is far below his usual level.

Rose nods mutely, but says nothing.

It only takes a second for his strength to fail slightly, and for the briefest of moments, his eyes flick to her lips. He looks up again in an instant, but she has seen and he can sense her breath hitching in her chest, can imagine it spreading and tingling within her.

He applies pressure to her chin with is finger, tiling her head up, her mouth towards his. He isn't thinking any more, not with words anyway, and all this talk about how he senses things and how they differ, he suddenly has an overwhelming urge to prove to her how similar they can be.

Her eyes flicker shut as he dips his head – and it's in that moment that he realises what it is he's doing.

Moving swiftly, he balances on the tips of his toes, angling his head up to press a soft, gentle kiss to her forehead instead. For a second, he lets his eyes drift shut as he sees in her what he wants to, connects their minds for the briefest of seconds, sees thoughts and feelings and memories that hurt him because they once hurt her.

But he pulls away again after a second, not wanting to pry in places he is uninvited. He releases her chin and stands back, meeting her eye and offering a grin. All she can do is blink at him, so he chuckles and gives a small nod, before turning and heading for the door, the tails of his coat behind him.

Perhaps now she will understand exactly how it is he feels. Quite how, he isn't sure, because even he couldn't express how he feels about his Rose. She came close to crossing a line, to forcing him to use words where only actions and thoughts could suffice. Perhaps it is a lesson she will heed well.

As he makes his way down the corridor with a gentle smile on his face, he buries his hands in his pockets and lets out a happy sigh. At least it will give her something to think about. He is rather beginning to enjoy these mornings with her.

Back in the kitchen, Rose still stands, this time with a hand to her mouth as something appears in her mind almost like a memory, almost like a feeling. She can't quite explain it. It lingers from the kiss from the Doctor, she is sure, and it feels warm and alive and happy, burrowing safely within her and offering a cocoon of safety.

She smiles, too. Because a part of her, at least for now, can understand why words are not important. Can understand why his people wouldn't talk about circumstances of the 'relationship' with their friends. Can finally understand what it means when she catches the Doctor looking at her through hollowed, melancholy eyes across the console room.

She understands what he will never say.

He has as good as shown her, and not just today. Everything he's done, it has been a message for her, a message written across the stars of how he feels and what he does and everything that means to him.

She is not sure why, but she is sure that her heart is beating a rhythm it hasn't before. She is sure she can hear something thump away in her mind, in a voice that is not her own. Coarse and broken, whispered, like a prayer.

_Rose_, it calls, sweetly into the shadowy depths of her mind. _Rose._

She smiles shyly and reaches a hand to her temple, almost feeling it there beneath her finger.

Doctor?

_Rose_.


End file.
